


Thus Always to Tyrants

by Lemon_Petal



Series: Thus Always to Tyrants [1]
Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Dream Team - Fandom, Dreamwastaken (Video Blogging RPF) - Fandom, GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF) - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Gay, HAHA GAY, King George - Freeform, Lil angsty, M/M, gogy, knight bad, knight dream, lost sapnap, slowburn, squire callahan, squire sapnap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-25
Updated: 2020-11-25
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:14:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27703985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lemon_Petal/pseuds/Lemon_Petal
Summary: "A King's time as a ruler rises and falls like the sun. One day, George, the sun will set on my time here and will rise with you, as the new King."Medieval Knight Dream and King George AU!At the tender age of seven Dream knew that he was to become a knight. By the summer of his seventh birthday he’d been seated at the kitchen table with his parents, a letter in their hands signed and sealed with wax and the weight of some lord. Within the week he’d packed his bags, waving at his siblings as he learned for the first time how to strap a horse for riding.At the age of twenty-one he'd wiped the blood of one passed off his blade for the first time. His blade clean and hands dirtied. Soiled like the earth from which he'd been borne. Now, a beautiful sculpture, perfectly smoothed pottery like the cusp of his mask.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), Clay | Dream/George | Georgenotfound (Video Blogging RPF), dreamnotfound - Relationship, gream - Relationship
Series: Thus Always to Tyrants [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2026172
Comments: 19
Kudos: 141





	Thus Always to Tyrants

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! I'm going to be writing this kingdom au, some of the artists I've seen on twitter had some great concepts I might use in the story and so I'll credit them appropriately! I hope I can live up to this hype! I ABSOLUTElY LOVE AND RECOMMEND listening to The Oh Hellos, they are a folk indie band that has absolutely gorgeous music that will inspire some chapters and titles of this work, so if you like it I'd check them out! Without further ado: Thus Always to Tyrants.

Thus Always to Tyrants

The Green was a vast expanse, a wide-reaching terrain that stretched across the land as far as the eye could see. To the south of the continent there was the Foundlands, the Northwest a land known as Pogtopia, to the East the End and in the dead North, the Netherlands. (lol) The Foundlands was a large country ruled by a just and fair Queen and King, their reach and legions of knights solidified their hold on the country and their power as a ruling family.

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At the tender age of seven Dream knew that he was to become a knight. The summer of his seventh birthday he’d been seated at the kitchen table with his parents, a letter in their hands signed and sealed with wax and the weight of some lord. Within the week he’d packed his bags, waving at his siblings as he learned for the first time how to strap a horse for riding. He’d been very lucky with the knight that had decided to take him in, the renowned King of Knights. And while he hadn’t been paid much attention in his time there, he had dedicated every moment to the honing of his skills.

Felix was a kind and humble man, and despite the fact that they never grew particularly close, Dream had held the man to his title, pleased to see it as true. He had spent his eight years as a page learning from the late king’s personal guard, learning how to saddle a horse in mere seconds, scrub the barracks dry in under an hour, suit up his knight in under a minute. Not every task had come easy to him, things took time, but slowly and surely he became quicker, more skilled, prepared. When Felix had the time, he had taught Clay to sword fight personally and had him train with his squire, Darryl. Darryl was an incredible fighter, his talent with the dagger and crossbow unrivaled by the others his age. Perhaps Darryl was what really set a young Clay apart from the rest of the squires, they had quickly formed a close bond that wasn’t present in most squire/page pairings. Darryl had been the one to teach him the most during his time as a page, staying up until the crack of dawn teaching Clay how to draw a bow, riding with him to the villages and teaching him how to trade for the correct amount of emeralds.

Where Felix had lacked in free time, Darryl had pushed himself so that he could assist Clay. As time had passed, Clay saw less and less of Darryl. When Clay had turned eleven, Darryl had moved from Duke Felix’s larger estate to what would become his permanent residence in the capital and the castle. Life without Darryl was much more dull, his heart longed for the days they would prank the house maids and staff with mysterious muffin mix, the long intensive sword duels held between the two. He began to practice by himself, assisting Felix with his paperwork and traveling alongside him to diplomatic engagements. With Darryl he had trained his sword and with Felix, his tongue.

Finally the day came when he was fifteen, no longer would he be a page in a lonely spire. Darryl had returned to the estate on the back of his gorgeous tawny stallion, Roberto, bringing with him a stunning white coated mare. Felix and Darryl had stood side by side as they gave him the reins, smiling. If Clay had cried, no one needed to know. He’d named them Spirit, after the light way they danced when they cantered, the height they would reach on each jump. They were free, beautiful and untamed, no one tying them down. Clay liked to think he was the same way.

After moving to the castle and becoming a squire Clay had met George. The first thought that had come to his mind upon first seeing the young prince had been, ‘pretty’ and then, ‘what a prick.’ He’d been introduced to all of Darryl’s other squire and page friends and welcomed with mostly open arms. The first person Darryl had introduced him to was Luke, the squire had worn thin links of golden chainmail across his neck and shoulders and golden arm guards on his wrists. Then he had met Ant, a more scrawny boy with tawny hair and delicate skin. He, like Darryl, was to be knighted in under two years time. This was the case with many of Darryl’s other friends, and most importantly the two princes of the Foundlands. Luke had been the one to really introduce him to George, the young prince with a flawless smile and jawline. Clay had never been more thankful for his mask than the moment he’d first kneeled at the feet of his liege. “Your highness,”-- Dark and shining leather boots with a slight edge of heel were the extent of his vision; They were very high quality, polished wax seamlessly blending with the bends in the light. George had said nothing at first and gazed down at him with dismissively intrigued eyes. Clay could feel himself being examined, it was the sort of nerve-wracking that can only come from being judged by the purpose of your life.

“Your name?” His rich, noble accent had filled Clay’s ears, leaving him petrified. The low smooth tone had him biting his tongue.  
“Clay.” He’d flushed with embarrassment under his mask. Dirt. Wet dirt. A commoner’s name. He stared at smooth, stone tiled floors not daring to lift his head an inch, it would be improper.

“George,” He heard the faint whisper of a chuckle, “You shall call me George.” George, he’d flushed deeper, a farmer’s name. How odd. How quaint. A silent figure had cleared his throat from behind George and Clay’s head had instinctually shot up. Clay noted the embarrassingly red nose strapped to his face and felt a hint of pity for what had to be some sort of page or squire. “Ah, I must be on my way now, a pleasure.” He’d given Clay the barest hint of a smile before walking away with the red-nosed boy behind him. Clay thought he was going to throw up.

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Eventually, Clay had been assigned a page of his own, to help him keep care of his horse, Spirit, to tidy the barracks and keep track of chores. His name was Nick and he’d very obviously had an affinity for fire magic. Clay realized this the moment the stables had first caught on fire. After the next three times it happened, Clay had learned to run faster than any horse but his Spirit, slide to the water well, pump like his arms were going to fall off, and then throw the water onto the small bush and the bucket at Nick. They’d called him Sapnap, because he’d always fall asleep under the small saplings by the stables after his work had been finished, somedays mid-way through his tasks. Clay’s eye twitched. He loved Nick, truly he did, but sometimes the page was too much for him.

As the days passed Clay saw less and less of Darryl and Luke, and on the off occasion he saw one of the two they had two pages trailing behind their every move. One was clearly a noble, always chasing after the renowned squire known to the kingdom as Bad in silvered chainmail and gleaming blue silk robes. He’d learned the name of this noble from Darryl, S-Geppy, he’d called him, the name rolling off his tongue as his lips turned up softly into a smile. The other figure Clay had gotten to know much better, his name was Karl and he was Luke’s page and Nick’s secret admirer. Clay tried to find it in himself to be annoyed by their late night escapades and little adventures during training hours, but really, he appreciated the time. It had started a month or so after Sap and Karl’s first escapade, he had found himself in the training courtyard as the sun began to dip over the castle’s great stony walls and turned to see the thin and trained form of his prince. George. The name ghosted across his memory, painting an image of dirtied hands and tilled soil. Clay. He had stood there for a while just admiring the stance of his liege before the other had taken notice of him. Wide, golden-brown eyes met green and bronze in a sharp clash, a battle for dominance. Clay kneeled. “Majesty’.”  
The wind had caressed their cheeks and the cold bit at Clay’s nose, silence echoing into the eventide, “-George.” Was the only reply as the scrape of metal met Clay’s ears, he too drew his sword.

“We don’t have to do this, Majesty.” He’d replied with the slight of a smirk, cockiness filling his blood and trained muscles winding to pounce. He’d swung his sword about in a bout of showmanship and lilted the blade up to catch the fading glimpses of the sun.  
“On the contrary,” The handsome figure had paused for a moment, tossing his scabbard loosely to the ground, “I’m in need of some entertainment to appease me,” A smug self-confident grin had spread across the prince’s face, “So best me, if you can.” White circular goggles had encapsulated the gaze of the prince and Clay had scoffed through his large smile, cheater.

Their blades had danced in the crisp air, each slice dangerously glinting off hardened armour. George would go on the offensive, thrusting his blade towards the centre of Clay’s chestplate; Clay parrying with a practiced ease and turning the movement on George’s head. The battle had continued like this until each were panting and becoming more and more exhausted. Finally, someone had called out to Clay, it was Nick. He’d cursed his sub-optimal timing, and turned back to face his opponent only to be met with the end of a blade snug against his neck. He’d swallowed heavily. How dirty. “Yield.” The most smug expression had greeted him and he’d growled under his breath.

“You fight dirty, for a prince.” Laughter filled his ears, it was as beautiful as a chorus of bells.  
“You fight clean, for a lump of Clay.” He’d felt his ears redden at the blow to his pride, of insult or compliment he wasn’t quite sure. He could hear Nick rounding the bend.

“I yield.” The prince had tilted his head and twirled his sword about, retreating to sheath his sword. Clay had looked scornfully at the ground.  
“Perhaps someday, you will have been moulded into the most beautiful piece of pottery.” The prince had chuckled and brushed his hand against one of the many wooden doors that lead to the indoors. “Let us see if you can best me then.” Clay had lost his tongue and pressed his hands against his porcelain mask. Curse that pompous prick.

If he had accidentally pummeled Sapnap into oblivion at each following duel, no one needed to know.  
Nick had glared at him for days following before his resolve had hardened with Clay’s at the prospect of improving. After his next outing with Karl, he’d noticed Clay in a similar mood. If Sapnap had noticed that his ears were bright red and the bruise on his arm, he didn’t mention it.

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At seventeen Clay had watched Darryl as he stood in front of Prince Eret, kneeled in front of the throne with his black and red cape blowing behind him, his sword in its sheath and his eyes closed in a calm that comes from embracing one’s destiny. Around him Clay saw the King, Felix, Sapnap, Karl and Luke. With teary eyes a young lord had rushed to the stage, kneeling before the King and Prince as he spoke his piece; The light blue and silver cloth of his robes blowing in the wind. In the end with the happiest laughter Clay had ever heard, the lord had knighted Darryl, bequeathing him with the rather long name of Badboyhalo. Following the rest of the knighting ceremonies Clay had seen the noble throw himself into the arms of Bad in a fierce all-encompassing hug. And before he could take note of anything more, Clay had found himself entranced in the blue of another man with a familiar wide smile and honeyed brown eyes. He’d watched as some noble, lord or prince from another far off land had sidled right up to the side of the figure he’d come to know as George and attempted to steal him away for a dance. Clay laughed. Their eyes had met. George didn’t dance that night. The dessert table had missed several pastries post George’s decision.

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Time passed and Clay found himself dreaming of his days as a page in Felix’s estate, merely sweeping the livestock’s stalls and filing letters. On the eve of his nineteenth birthday Clay had realized how close Luke was to becoming Punz and the second Prince Eret to becoming King. Suddenly, with the white and gold streamers in the air and the squires to be knighted kneeling in front of the throne, Clay had realized how much more empty his life would become the moment this ceremony was through. Everything would change when this time came for him and he was swept into the glories of knighthood and adventure. He wondered how he would prove himself worthy of the title, worthy to fight and stand amongst the people of legends.

Clay had always known he would be a knight. Clay did not know if he would ever become a hero. As the time to the ceremony drew nearer Clay found himself in near constant contact with Prince Eret. The man was charming. Handsome, the epitome of a gentleman. Clay found himself easily compliant when it came to good looks. George looked good. Eret had a dashing smile and a deep voice. George had a snarky heart and a head filled with naivety. He knew that it would come down to one of them stepping up as leader and somehow Eret had managed to garner his vote. Clay had never seen a look of betrayal as powerful as the one he’d received from George that day. George, stepping up to be knighted. George, with his squire Callahan trailing behind him. George, with his soft pale cheeks and rosy lips. George the Prince, not the King. Eret had beamed and appointed him to be his royal squire. George had left with Callahan and Punz, never turning back to face him.

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Clay wasn’t sure when it had happened, but Clay had become Dream and Dream had become famous. Dream was built differently, a well oiled machine. Each movement from Dream was fluid and hardened, each step calculated and clean. He had quickly climbed up the ranks of squires and landed himself a slot amongst the best, sparring with even the best knights of the kingdom. His porcelain mask had cemented him amongst the young nobles as mysterious, his body and accomplishments cementing him as ‘handsome’. As he neared the age of knighthood, he only grew bolder in his quests and more cocky in his way. He’d met a nobleman with fiery locks of red and lips with the same fine colour. She was an enchantress, with wavy tresses of ash and embers and a tongue as sharp as her wit. He was twenty now, the ripe age for adventure and youthful gallivanting. She was impatient. “Clay, you aren’t paying enough attention to me.” He’d saddled Spirit and rode into the tempest of battle. George had been by his side. Scoffing at Clay.

“I ask you to prove yourself and you go to ally with my traitorous brother,” the plumes of smoke from the village filled Clay’s tired lungs. “You’re quite the character.” It was a jest, but a sour one at that. Eret, the traitorous king. He’d been caught red handed when he was seen in multiple ‘diplomatic’ meetings with the neighboring country of Pogtopia. His time as a leader had ended in the dust of explosions and the rage of war. That was when George had first taken true notice of him. George, in the heat of battle. George, cutting down rows upon rows of enemy soldiers as they stood back to back. George, at the end of it all, panting and wiping his gleaming brow. George, whispering softly as the sun rose over the field of battle, “It’s time your potter took you off their wheel.”

Dream was a word of power, a magical word that told of untouchable things. Dream was something unattainable for all but one. The ability to reach out and pluck your dreams from the starry skies. At the tender age of seven Dream knew that he was to become a knight. By the summer of his seventh birthday he’d been seated at the kitchen table with his parents, a letter in their hands signed and sealed with wax and the weight of some lord. Within the week he’d packed his bags, waving at his siblings as he learned for the first time how to strap a horse for riding. Now, at the age of twenty-one he'd wiped the blood of one passed off his blade for the first time. His blade clean and hands dirtied. Soiled like the earth from which he'd been borne. Now, a beautiful sculpture, smoothed pottery like the cusp of his mask. He'd kneeled once more for his liege; Blade and body poised as Bad's had been so long ago. Eret had managed to escape with his life. Clay had escaped with his name intact, his innocence proven and his title of knighthood whispered across the lands like a rumor. And so the sun climbed higher in the sky, rising with George as the new king. A blade of silver passed over Clay's shoulders in the barren wastes of a battlefield. And Dream, was born.

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TBC If I get enough comms asking me to! If continued will be story of knight Dream by King George's Side. Hope you enjoyed! :)


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